


and all you know, and all you speak

by ericdire (aarobron)



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-02
Updated: 2019-05-02
Packaged: 2020-02-16 08:21:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18687715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aarobron/pseuds/ericdire
Summary: Virgil’s to Jordan’s right, chin propped up on his hand as he watches his teammates mess about. He’s quiet; has barely said a word since they got into the cab, but he’s smiling fondly and his eyes are bright. He’s like that, sometimes. Jordan’s noticed before: sometimes he just stops to take the world around him, to sit silently and watch his friends enjoy themselves, soaking up the good vibes and committing every detail of it to memory. It’s a talent. Another thing on a long list of the admirable traits of Virgil van Dijk.





	and all you know, and all you speak

Jordan wears the captain’s armband like a badge of honour.

It was a tough job, having to fill Stevie’s shoes – the man was Liverpool embodied, in heart and mind and spirit, and millions of people across the globe looked up to him. He represented the club in a way that took Jordan’s breath away, and when he stepped away, the gap where his bright smile and sheer determination would have been was huge. The loss ached like a three match ban, or a broken metatarsal, and Jordan felt it everywhere.

He felt it when he couldn’t raise the boys’ spirits on a cold, rainy Tuesday afternoon in training. He felt it after a particularly bad loss to a bottom table team. He felt it on that miserable Sunday evening, when they all watched the line of the gaffer’s shoulders leave Melwood for the last time. He felt it all the time, especially when all that met his bright, desperate grins were blank stares and furrowed eyebrows.

If Stevie were here, everyone would be smiling back at him. They’d be laughing, somehow, through the pain and the tears and the soaked pitch, climbing over each other like school kids and being a _team_. Jordan just doesn’t have that same kind of energy, but it’s alright.

It’s alright, because he already knew it was going to be tough. A dark cloud in the shape of Steven Gerrard would be hanging over him for the entire of the next season at the very least, and people would be scrutinising him. Every word, every facial expression, every kick of the ball – _but is he Stevie, though? Is he fit enough to captain this Liverpool side? Has he got the guts, the glory? Is he enough?_

But this was Jordan Henderson, born with fire in his veins, fury and motivation and the need to win fueling his every move. He was going to prove them all wrong. He was going to step into Stevie’s shoes and he was going to fucking fill them, shaking off the cloud to make the sun shine bright over Anfield once again. 

It was a big ask, but he went into it heart first and eyes closed, and somewhere along the way, he’d managed to gain the respect of his team. They listened to him: when he was giving advice before kick off or telling them what to do differently at half time, when they came to him with wide, sad eyes after a defeat. They asked for his advice and they took it on, and he’d never felt more proud than when he was seeing each of his teammates-friends- _brothers_ improving every single day.

Nothing changed. Rodgers went and Klopp was appointed, Emre left and so did Philippe, and in came Robbo and Mo, until it all felt like a revolving door. New faces, new names, every six months, and Jordan didn’t want to get attached but he was the captain of this team and he had to. He had to get to know them and guide them and be there, and every time one of them left – he felt it deep in his gut, heart wrenching and painful. 

But still, nothing changed. It seemed like the only constant was that black and white armband (burn-your-eyes yellow in Europe, which was an honour in and of itself), and Jordan Henderson, with his slicked back hair and a thick accent. All the background details were a blurry mess of comings and goings, but Jordan stood proud throughout it all. Stitched the shape of a liver bird on his chest, and touched the This is Anfield sign every week, without fail. Remained solid, unshakeable, dependable. Made sure of it.

Until Virgil, that is.

Mid-season signings were always weird. You’d had six months to get used to the ten men you played alongside each game; learning how to work with them, the kind of passes they play and the spaces they get into, their weaknesses and their strengths. And not only on the pitch, too: there were team dinners and celebration drinks and jokes shared in training, and bringing someone new into the mix was always a startling jolt back into reality. Every time it happened, it made Jordan realise that there was a life outside this team. One that he wasn’t privy to. 

Virgil was one of them. Sure, he already knew Gini from international duty, and he knew Sadio from Southampton, but he was the new boy. He stuck to Gini’s side like glue in that first training session, and was quiet – well, as quiet as Virgil van Dijk could ever be – and Jordan… Well, Jordan didn’t quite know how to handle him.

Because he was special. He felt like he knew so much about Virgil; they shared the same agent and he’d been the one to keep pressuring the board to sign him, but they’d never met. They hadn’t held a single conversation before the transfer, but Jordan already knew he was special. He could see it in the way Virgil played, the movement of his feet and the proud line of his shoulders, the fire in his eyes every time he blocked a shot. He was special, and he was going to be fucking huge.

That was a little intimidating. Well, it was terrifying, really – here was this man, worth seventy-five million pounds and who was inevitably going to dominate the sports pages of the papers in a few months time, and Jordan was the one who had to show him the ropes. It felt like being trusted to cradle a delicate crystal in big, heavy, clumsy hands. 

Jordan had never quite known how to look after things. He’d trample all over his mum’s flower beds when he was a kid, crushing rose petals with the studs of his cleats and dragging mud through the house. He’d dropped his first smartphone two days after he’d got it, and had to deal with a cracked screen for the next two years. His high school girlfriend bought him a bracelet for their anniversary, engraved with their initials and the date they got together, and he’d left it in the locker room after football practice.

The point is, people didn’t trust him to care for things of value. He didn’t trust _himself_ , and it was fine – he’d learnt a long time ago that it was better this way, and he didn’t need expensive stuff to make him happy, anyway. He was perfectly fine as he was.   
Being trusted with his teammates wasn’t the problem. They were usually wide-eyed and slack-jawed with the new boys when he was showing them around Anfield, taking every little detail and hanging on his every word. They smiled shyly, and spoke quietly, asking tentative questions that he answered honestly. He could look after these lads, he could be authoritative and kind and welcoming, because he was Jordan Henderson, Liverpool’s skipper, and he took pride in that. 

But Virgil van Dijk wasn’t quiet, or wide-eyed, or tentative – and he was the furthest thing from shy. He took it all in his stride with an easy grin, eyes lighting up as they passed over the This is Anfield sign, fingertips tracing his own name over the dressing room space that had already been set up for him. 

He didn’t have to worry about crushing him, not really; Virgil isn’t as delicate as a rose petal and Jordan definitely couldn’t ground him into mush with the studs of his boot, but he still feels like he’s got a responsibility. 

It’s just hard to remember what that responsibility is, sometimes. Virgil doesn't laugh at his jokes - instead, his eyes light up and he just replies with his own quick banter, witty and barbed. His words sound like velvet slipping out of his mouth and it steals the breath right from Jordan's lungs, but.

But he tells himself that it's just admiration.

There's so much to admire about Virgil. Jordan may be captain of this team but he's still learning, every training session and every single game, he looks back at what he did. He works out what he needs to do differently, how to improve, how to talk to his team and arrange them and motivate them. How to make this squad the best team in Liverpool history.

He spends hours on it, but Virgil seems to know immediately. Sure, he really only controls the back line - firmly telling Joel which players to chase and which ones to leave to him, and screaming at Trent to get back into position - but he does it so naturally, so _well_ , that fierce jealousy burns through Jordan's veins whenever he hears Virgil's loud words from behind him.

And he doesn't take Jordan's shit, either. Most of the lads look up to him, do as they're told and listen to his instructions carefully, but Virgil doesn't. He never has, not even from his very first day. Jordan remembers the Napoli game like it was yesterday; that unnecessary tackle that Virgil was lucky to get away with. It could have (and probably should have) been a red card, and the relief pouring over Jordan’s body when he saw a flash of yellow instead. The words he snapped at Virgil about how stupid it was. The words Virgil hissed back when he told him to back off. The shiver that travelled down Jordan’s spine when Virgil’s fiery eyes were turned on him, and the way he was pathetically half hard in his shorts afterwards.

He remembers every damn second of it, every moment of all the times Virgil has reduced him to silence with just a look – and that’s what makes it worse when he finally manages to put a name to the feeling.

Jordan isn’t a person that likes to yield. He doesn’t like people to yield to him, either: he wants to be strong and he wants those facing his wrath to be strong too. The push and pull, the butting heads, the heated exchanges – that’s what he wants. From his friends, his family, his teammates. He’s a natural leader, but not the kind that puts his peers down. He wants to incite passion, be the reason they improve. He thrives on the pride of it.

Virgil doesn’t yield and he leaves no room for Jordan to yield. He isn’t soft and the only time he’s ever gentle with his words. His hands are big and strong when they grab Jordan’s shoulders and shake him in celebration. His chest is broad and solid when pulls Jordan in for a hug, and his hip bones are as sharp as knives when Jordan grabs them to steady himself. 

He’s honest, sometimes, in a way that hurts. Barbed comments that are nothing but truthful, in that admirable no-bullshit-ever way of Virgil van Dijk. He tells Jordan when he’s had a bad game, or when he’s taken his frustration out on the wrong person. He calls him an idiot when he gets into a pointless confrontation, hand on the back of his neck gripped so tight it makes the muscles there faintly ache. 

They are the push and pull of a magnet: so similar in personality that they should repel each other, but Jordan has been attracted to him since the very first time he laid eyes on Virgil. They fight, and they make up, and they tease each other, and some days Jordan knows he needs to leave Virgil well enough alone or he’ll see the parts of his own self that he doesn’t like – but ultimately, every time he looks at Virgil or talks to Virgil or just… thinks about Virgil, he knows what this hurricane of emotion tearing up his insides really is. 

He knows he's head over heels for Virgil. He knows because he felt it, from that very first second his heart decided to give up the ghost and stopped pretending it was inevitable. The earth shifted, and there was nothing but air under his feet, and as he was free free free falling, he thought, _how am I supposed to control this? How do I stop it from happening?_

It wasn't long before he realised that he _couldn't_.

The thing is, Jordan doesn't like to not be in control. It's a flaw, apparently - ex girlfriends and old teammates and countless other people have told him more times than he cares to remember, but he thinks it's what makes him the perfect captain. When he slides that armband on, he's taking control of his team. He's taking control of the game, and anything that happens now is down to him. Whether that's praise or criticism - he takes it all on, so other people don't have to. Personally, he thinks it's a complimentary trait to have.

But he couldn't control the way he felt about Virgil, no matter how hard he tried. He couldn't force himself to stop and he couldn't even slow it down. It may have taken him a while, but he's learnt to accept that now. Enjoy it, almost, because at least when he feels like this, he knows he's alive. The adrenaline gives him a head rush, makes him feel giddy and energised and, just simply, fucking _happy_. He can't control his own emotions, but he can control the way he goes about them.

And that's a thrill in and of itself.

.

They were kicked out of the hired bar hours ago, but Jordan doesn't want the night to end just yet. Studge had dragged them to some cocktail bar overlooking the Albert Dock, where the drinks were expensive and the music was good, and for once, none of them felt out of place. Nobody was staring at them, nobody approached them for a picture or an autograph or to congratulate them on their season.

It was just a normal night, a _good_ night with good friends, and Jordan doesn't want that feeling to end. He's clinging to it with both hands through his tipsy haze.

He ends up in the back of a taxi, heading in the vague direction of his house. Ox and Joe are singing, off-key and loud, to the Little Mix song that’s playing through the radio, but the driver doesn’t seem annoyed in the slightest – instead, he turns it up. He keeps peering through the rearview mirror at them, smile plastered across his face and amusement in his eyes, but Jordan can see a Liverpool air freshener swaying in the warm breeze coming through the window, so that’s probably why.

Gini’s dozing against the window on Jordan’s left, letting out the occasional soft snore that makes Ox howl, but he doesn’t wake up once from the noise. Virgil’s to Jordan’s right, chin propped up on his hand as he watches his teammates mess about. He’s quiet; has barely said a word since they got into the cab, but he’s smiling fondly and his eyes are bright.

He’s like that, sometimes. Jordan’s noticed before: sometimes he just stops to take the world around him, to sit silently and watch his friends enjoy themselves, soaking up the good vibes and committing every detail of it to memory. It’s a talent. Another thing on a long list of the admirable traits of Virgil van Dijk.

But even when he’s like this, you couldn’t forget he was here. Well – maybe if you were a better man than Jordan, but right now he’s been squished into the middle seat, and Virgil is a big man. His leg is pressed from hip to ankle against Jordan’s, heat from his body making him feel like he’s burning up from the outside in. He shouldn’t be this affected by it, really, but Virgil’s wearing those tight jeans and Jordan hasn’t been able to take his eyes off him all night. It feels like an honour to be sat this close to him. 

The taxi pulls up on the corner of a street somewhere between all of their houses, and Ox pays the driver with more notes than necessary (which he says is because he can't be bothered to sort the money out, but Jordan knows it's because he has a heart bigger than he likes to let on). The air's turned chilly, and they all say their goodbyes, Gini tucked safely under Joe's arm - except for Virgil. He lives in the same direction as Jordan, and they fall into step beside each other.

He still doesn't want the night to end, keeps replaying all the jokes and laughter and Bobby's dancing, and the look in Virgil's eyes, and Mo's bright smile, and _the look in Virgil's eyes_.

He can't control much when he's off the football pitch, but he can control this.

"Do you want to come back to mine for another drink?" Jordan asks. They've barely made it ten steps before he breaks the silence, and he hopes his words aren't as hopeful as his thoughts, but he can see Virgil break out into a blinding grin from the corner of his eye.

"Yeah," Virgil says, voice deep and gravelly and oh so familiar. He sounds calmer than Jordan feels, like maybe he doesn't know there's an ulterior motive, but he must do. There's no way he hasn't noticed the way Jordan looks at him, because Jordan's noticed the way he looks _back_. "Yeah, I'd like that."

Silence falls over them again as they walk the few minutes back to the house, but it's not an uncomfortable one. Jordan doesn't think anything to do with Virgil could be uncomfortable; he exudes so much confidence that it come off him in waves, soaking into the people around him until their smiles become easy and their shoulders relax.

The conversation picks back up when they’re in the kitchen. Jordan finds himself sat on a bar stool next to the island, bottle of beer cradled between his thighs and seat spun round so he can watch Virgil’s awful impressions of Ox embarrassing himself earlier in the night. Honestly, Alex dancing is already bad enough – but Virgil somehow makes it even worse, and Jordan’s howling with laughter.

He can’t keep his eyes off of Virgil, though. Whether he’s taking the piss out of their friends or reaching his beer that’s on the counter behind him, the way his body moves is so fluid and graceful that Jordan feels breath catch in his throat. It’s completely different to watching him on the pitch. So much more intimate.

_Especially_ when he’s dancing badly just to make Jordan laugh. 

Virgil grins, sharp and soft and something that says so much without the man speaking anything at all, and this, Jordan thinks, this is it. This time he’s taking control, because this is his moment – his and Virgil’s and no one else’s. He’s picked this one moment, out of all of them that have passed over the past eighteen months, and he’s going to take control of his own life. For the first time in longer than he can remember, really, the weight of responsibility doesn’t feel like a noose around his neck. 

He watches carefully as Virgil takes a long sip of his beer, long fingers wrapped around the bottle and head tilted back. The line of his throat is strong, and bares miles of glowing, bronze skin. Jordan wants to put his mouth there and _bite_ , wants everyone to know that it was him, that he’s Virgil’s, that he was always has been.

That there was never any doubt.

“You look good tonight,” Jordan says quietly, calmly. It's not a lie - Virgil is wearing tight, dark jeans that cling to his thighs and a black jumper, trainers kicked off by the front door and blazer thrown over the back of the sofa. He looks like a model, all sharp cheekbones and bright eyes. Is anyone really surprised that Jordan couldn't resist? 

He's staring, shocked, beer bottle forgotten and dangling from his grip. His mouth is glistening under the bright lights of the kitchen, and Jordan tracks the movement of his tongue when it darts out to lick his lower lip. When he looks back up, Virgil's eyes are wide but dark, so impossibly dark. Something in Jordan's stomach drops, and Virgil finally finds his words. "Jord…" He says quietly, and then trails off into nothing.

“I mean it,” Jordan says. A shiver travels up his spine when Virgil places the bottle on the counter and takes a step forward, lip caught between his teeth. This is it; Jordan is spellbound and there’s no going back now, not even if he wanted to, and he abandons his own bottle and rests his elbows on the surface behind him. His thighs fall open of their own accord, leaving a gap for Virgil. If he wants to. If he wants _Jordan_. “You look incredible.” 

“You can’t go round saying things like that to people, Jordan,” Virgil murmurs, even as he steps between the splay of Jordan’s thighs. His name sounds like heaven coming out of the younger man’s mouth; soft and harsh and light and heavy all at once. Jordan wonders what it tastes like on his tongue.

“Why not?” He asks instead, tightening his knees. There’s two layers of fabric between them, thick denim on thick denim, but he can still feel the body heat, the tautness of the muscle of Virgil’s thighs and the spark of electricity that the touch ignites. He wants it all and he wants _more_ , feels drunk on it and so fucking greedy. This is what Virgil does to him, what he’s always done, and now they both know it.

It’s a dangerous game to play.

“Because they might get the wrong idea,” Virgil says, and his eyes flash darker darker darker for a split second, and then finally, fucking finally, his mouth is on Jordan’s. He’s cradling Jordan’s jaw in his rough palms like it’s something delicate, thumb smoothing over the bristles of his beard as his tongue brushes along the seam of his lips. All that Jordan can do is hold on and take it, curling his fingers around Virgil’s biceps so hard it must hurt.

His mouth is wet and hot, and he tastes like the faint tang of beer and honey, sweet and heady all at the same time. It’s overwhelming, and Jordan wants to catalogue everything – the velvet slide of his tongue against Jordan’s, the sharpness of his teeth when he nips at the sensitive skin of his neck, the breathy little gasps that Jordan swallows as soon as they’ve left his throat – but somewhere, deep down, he knows that he’s got plenty of time to remember all the details.

“Or maybe they’ll understand exactly what I want,” Jordan whispers when he finally drags himself away from the kiss. Virgil’s palm slides under his t-shirt, touch featherlight and teasing as his fingers spider across his ribs, and he uses the grip to pull Jordan against his body even tighter. He starts sucking bruising little kisses on the underside of his jaw, ones that will leave a mark. Jordan feels his eyes roll back into his head. “Maybe they understood what I wanted all along.”

.

Jordan wears the captain’s armband like a badge of honour.

It is an honour; he’s captaining the club he loves more than anything in this world, leading them to the top, to victories and joy and praise, and he couldn’t imagine himself being anywhere else. He loves it all, the adrenaline rush and the celebrations and being surrounded with friends that mean the world to him. It’s an unparalleled feeling, and he doesn’t know how he’s going to cope with the loss when he eventually has to hang up his boots.

He loves it, but sometimes, on a few rare occasions, the armband feels like an anchor, weighing him down and dragging him to rock bottom. Sometimes it feels like he’ll never get out of that place, that feeling, after they’ve missed shots and opportunities and trophies, even after he’s taken the armband off. It feels like it’s been branded into his skin, burning with shame for the entire world to see.

But at the end of an awful day, when he’s hugged his teammates and told them that they’ve done the best they could, when he’s held in all the tears and fury and the bitter taste in his mouth, when he leaves that shirt at Anfield – red, like the rage he feels deep in his bones – he knows that he’s got something to come home to.

Something much, much bigger than the anger that fills every empty space in his body.

Because Virgil moulds himself into those gaps much better than the anger ever could. Virgil is solid and warm and _real_ , he’s dependable and he knows what Jordan needs and he gives it to him, and Jordan loves him so, so much. Virgil knows what it’s like to captain your team through the worst times, he knows when to leave well enough alone and when to pull Jordan back out of his shell. 

He tells Jordan how proud he is, whispers sweet comforting words in his velvety voice, and when that doesn’t work, he shows him instead. With gentle hands and the slide of his lips, fingers in his hair, worshipping him, _worshipping him_ , taking care of him. Taking care of him because here, in this house, in this bed, is the one place Jordan can let himself be taken care of. The one time he can forget about everyone else that’s depending on him, and for once, rely on someone else.

Virgil always knows what he needs. He reads him like a book, his thoughts and feelings and actions, and if Jordan sees the captain’s armband as an honour, then Virgil seems to thank his lucky stars that he can be that one person for Jordan. That he gets to see the side of him that nobody else does.

He doesn’t feel shame around Virgil. He lets himself go, holds nothing back, and Virgil loves him despite that, and maybe _in spite_ of that, and he sees every part and loves every part, the captain and the disciple, the highest of the highs and the lowest of the lows, and it’s all Virgil’s, and really, at the end of the day – that’s the most important thing of all.

**Author's Note:**

> \- virgil's outfit, a la his [signing day](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rySFEJ_hkMw) video.  
> \- virgil's dancing, like the [bts kit unveiling](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eNinoZXod14) video (from 1:49)
> 
> i don't really have any more notes to add, but i hope you enjoyed it, and as always, feedback is appreciated and welcomed! thank you for reading!
> 
> find me on tumblr @ [bami-dele](https://bami-dele.tumblr.com/) xo


End file.
